I do not cry when people around me die or lose it when people leave me. For years I was scared of this non-expression and then realized it was disassociation.
​
I have been a chronic coping robot for so long, with a calm face and exterior, that it has become difficult to have the right reaction or let out my emotions during a safe time ( or while in a safe space).

I have pain in my body and aches that feel unexplainable since I am a young, limber adult with no physical ailments or broken bones/injuries to ever speak of.

I did not realize my body stored all the trauma and pain left from abuse within my back, neck, shoulders, and knees.

I was never taught how the body contains our emotional pains and insecurities, so I grew up thinking something was seriously wrong with me.

Every time I saw a doctor and complained about aches or irritations, I was told my numbers and tests were extremely average and "fine".

For X amount of years, every professional I have ever seen has convinced me that light exercise and a healthy diet will provide me with a healthy lifestyle.

Not one has looked me in the eyes and said, "You dear have stored trauma and need to heal".

How was I ever supposed to know I had problems after leaving my abusers when the only people who saw me all thought I passed as normal?

********************************************************

I have said these things as well as heard them over the years.

I had no idea I had PTSD until last year, at 28 years old, when a professional diagnosed me after examination and a session.
I knew depression was a thing and that anxiety was a way people "behaved".

I "expressed" anxiety characteristics.

I did not label myself as PTSD + DEPRESSION + ANXIETY until someone trained saw it all over me and said to me directly, "I can hear it in your voice."

And it was not a silly little comment.

It blew the lid right off my sealed tight suppression of trauma.

I fell headfirst into pulling apart my problems and had to dig deep into my experiences to figure out where it all started.

IT was not a difficult dig. The hard part was connecting my past to my present.

I had to BECOME aware of my current behaviors and emotions.

In the past, I had thought about my experiences as a child and adolescent. When I had "lived with the abuse".

I thought leaving at 16 meant I had left abuse.

Turns out I received abuse by many people after because I was unaware of the red flags or how susceptible I was to it.

NO ONE TELLS YOU THESE THINGS.

I passed as normal for everybody.

I was outspoken. Confident. Funny. Smiled often. Social.

I put myself out there and took chances as an independent young adult.

NOTHING pointed to me having problems with abuse.

Piled up laundry for days = most adults and almost all college kids, so not weird.

Idiot college boyfriend problems = well, every girl around me in a relationship with a peer seemed to have similar issues so that seemed normal too.

Struggle to keep up with ALL responsibilities = every college kid, everywhere.

Nights of insomnia or days of wanting to sleep mid-day = every college kid everywhere.

I totally PASSED AS FINE.

I did not know until last year because I had never been around a professional that was Trauma trained.

I had talked about my past abuse to other survivors, not on purpose but just in conversating with peers. And not many people could really imagine what it was like, but thought I had "turned out fine".

Others thought it was somewhat normal because they had grown up with abuse too.

But they did not call it abuse. Just "childhood".

These are the reasons now I am thankful for starting a healing journey through holistic and spiritual practices.

I am learning for the first time what trauma LOOKS, SOUNDS, and FEELS like.

Through this newfound awareness, I am building a new relationship with myself and understanding my personality in a whole new way.

It is like I am able to now dissect myself from the trauma.

Separate what is "me" from what is "unhealthy" and then DECIDE who I want to be as I heal.

That feeling of self-transformation is so powerful and I owe it all to education in trauma. But I also owe it to taking matters into my own hands after being diagnosed.

The best thing we can do for ourselves is to SEEK knowledge and then APPLY IT.

<3
J.S. Jaded Savior

All week I have felt weak.
Weak in my body.
Weak in my heart.
Weak in my spirit.
​
I have revisited horrible memories and experiences, drudged up horrific trauma and talked about things I supressed for over a decade.

It was the least bit relieving...at first.

As the week winds down, I find myself wanting to nap the day away. My focus cannot hold past mindless activities.
And yet, deep within my mind I feel something brewing.

A restlessness.

A rumbling in the cavity.

I have been resistant to the gear up.

To leap into the NEW.

All I have ever known was trauma. Dysfunction. Disappointment.

Even though I have been on my own for many years and then finally married and made a family, I have had the haunting feeling that everything will come crashing down.

That I will only discover problems and struggles.

That happiness was a light I was never meant to bask in and headlights were the only thing i chased.
As it turns out, that was my trauma speaking.

A little whisper telling me that everything is going to blow up in my face. So i better hold my breathe to cushion the blow.

I have been holding my breathe for 5 years.

In fact, even longer than that.

Literally and figuratively, I have found it hard to breathe and have just tried to survive the calm.
Calm feels almost scarier than trauma, because it is like the tide going out.

We know it will drown us when it comes back.

And it always does.

I have felt so heavy this week, so I took a step back from my work and blogging to get extra sleep and take care of myself.

It's funny how when you wait for something for so long, the wait almost feels more exciting than the end surprise.

All this time, my symptoms have been "preparing me" for the tide to come back in.

Anxiety has had me splashing my own face with cool water, you know "to get used to the pain ahead of time".
To train.

That is what PTSD and anxiety have done to me.

Little splash in the morning after I wake.
A lovely wash up after breakfast.
A mid day wash.
And so on.
Little sprinkles of:
"This is going to be ruined."
"You are NOT cut out for this."
"You have never shown consistency."
"Drama comes to you."
"This was a NICE run."
"It was good while it lasted."
☆

Today I got tired of the bullshit.

That rumbling turned out NOT to be the BOOM I was anticipating.

AFTER YEARS OF WAITING ON MY LIFE AFTER ABUSE TO SOME HOW ONLY, INEVITABLY BE A SERIES OF CHAPTERS IN A PROTAGONISTS TALE.....

I have come to the end of a book.

One I have read for 29 years now, thinking I had predicted the end.

Like all of us, I thought the end would bring some crazy twist or cliff hanger.

But the last pages, I am now realizing end perfectly.

The closure of not a lifetime, but a book.

A single book in an entire series.

This story is NOT about a tragedy.

Not even close.

I was only reading an introduction to a
STRONG
FIERCE
BRAVE
RESILIENT
WARRIOR
GODDESS

I thought holding my breathe was a way to brace the inevitable trauma, when all this time it was a way to not breathe in the toxic fumes I survived.

The take away of the first book is that I SURVIVED.

And there was no tide coming back in for me.

I had left that beach all together the day I left trauma behind.

PTSD has a funny way of playing with our surroundings.
Making us think we are somewhere we are not.

Like being on a beach in the chill of winter, at the wrong place in the wrong time. Just waiting for the splash, even though it will never be fun to swim without the sun.

Trauma.

That was not the theme of the book.

And it is not the theme of my life.

It is not the theme of yours either.

For some, it is a page. Others may have chapters.

You may think you have a whole book dedicated to it.
But you are not finished yet.

Something this evening hit me. First in mind and then in heart.

I need to play BIG.
Be BIGGER.

I need to embody a new character and identity for the next book.

The one who is powerful after enduring so much, like the introduction taught you.

What does she do?
Where does she go?

How does she LEAP into amazing things?

One thing she does not do is sit in the sand on a cold winter's evening, crying that the water will soon come back to freeze her toes.

She takes action and becomes someone she wants to be.

She makes sure the ending of the series is
POWERFUL
IMPACTFUL
LIFE CHANGING
INSPIRING
WARM.

♡
J.S. JADED SAVIOR

I remember being thankful for my abusers.

Far back, the earliest memory I had of this feeling was clutching to my moms faded black scrunchy for her hair that I stole as comfort while I went away for the weekend with my father camping.

It was my first time going camping and sleeping all night in a tent with my father, whom I had visitations with on weekends post divorce as a toddler. It was my first time away from Cathy. She was busy with her fiance, doing what I found out later was getting married in a courthouse without me.

I held onto that scrunchy to smell it and comfort me to sleep. It smelled like her lipstick and perfume. And though I remember not crying that whole weekend, I had cried alot about leaving.

My parents were each a nightmare in their own way. Both mentally ill and untreated, but self medicated with substances and bad relationships. I had no clue growing up what was actually wrong. So most often I thought their odd behavior was just, well, them.
And me. I remember thinking it was me. That was confirmed when I finally told a counselor in middle school that my mother was a drinker.

She asked me, "what do you think makes your mother drink?"
My 11 year old mind, "stress."
Her, "and do you think you stress your mother out."
YES, JANICE.
I FU*KING DO.
Thank you for clearing that one up for me.
Me.

☆☆☆☆ Thankful.

I was thankful I had a roof to live under, even though the rent was being taunted and caring for a woman that blacked out and tried to harm everyone on the regular.

I was thankful I had food, though I snuck and binged on sugary treats and cereal for years because my mom barely cooked or went food shopping. And when she did, I was thankful for bologne, yogurt, wheat bread, and 45c packets of flavoring for rice. Chicken rice. Broccoli rice. Overcooked or raw rice.

Anything she provided. Thankful.

Like the unhealthy reminders of my weight, my looks, my unkept hair, and my eyes like my fathers.

Funny thing was, I had her eyes. The one thing I got from her. But she usually did not even notice.

I missed a woman who was right infront of me for 16 years, because I was just thankful to have a mother.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆thankful.

I was so thankful when a boy I really liked finally felt the same. And began to date me, in spite of what anyone else thought about me. I was not weird alone anymore. We were weird together. Marching to his own beat was so attractive to me. So I marched his too.

I was just so thankful to finally find a rhythm and call it love.

But that name did not apply to the way he treated me. What he expected of me. What he did behind my back. And what he did when I was no longer of use.

When things got too real.

It was me.

I got too real.

Real life happened and I became pregnant.

And I was convinced we would have a plan.

I was thankful to have him until I chose commitment and he chose to run.

I remember keeping his jersey after it was over.

Crying to sleep wearing it, belly poking out underneath with my hand cupped under my waistline to feel the kicks.

I wish I could have been thankful then that I had escaped and survived it. Him. Them.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ thankful.

I was a "daddy's girl" like most daughters are and I remember a time when I really enjoyed seeing Charlie. That stopped around age 8. Once the new marriage took place with my mother, he got weird.

His bond with me was like I was a pawn in his chess game. He had no idea how to play chess. We lost a lot.

I kept feeling excitement and so thankful to have what Charlie gave me.

Freedom.

Freedom to walk around with friends for hours.

Freedom to take the bus with change from the jar and show up in the city with girl peers to go meet guys. A secret for them but an open truth for me. One I had no clue was even a risk.

After all, I was thankful I could be independent.

Charlie supported it.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ thankful.

I was thankful I got out of the abuse from my parents and into a home with my Aunt and Uncle. That I could have 4 years to go from minor to young adult and go through Community College.

I then applied for a four year school and campus housing. I picked a major. A second major. A minor. A second minor. An internship. A job. I even applied for an RA position, though i was so thankful in the end that one thing did not pan out.
I was SUPER BUSY. Always smiling. Always creating in my spare nights and weekends.

I did not know it then but art and writing were my coping skills for my extreme anxiety and PTSD. Every one would say "wow, after all you say you have been through ---> you turned out so level headed."

I felt thankful I had it all together.

Disassociation left me filling a never ending itinerary. Passion was fueled by the void.
I was thankful for the void because it allowed me to paint and draw. To let out my raw emotions.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ thankful.

I was thankful when I met a guy during college who wanted to take it sllloooowwwww. He wanted to be my friend. Then take me on dates. Then start to date. Eventually met my child. And would walk me to my classes. Show up at my events.
I was thankful.

Thankful he wanted to kiss me and hold me in his arms. Thankful he looked down when he talked and was quiet.
Not arrogant or aggressive or loud.

If he had a rhythm, it would be a quiet whisper. Like the wind.

Four years, between two schools---> I was so thankful.

For the church I found through him. For the people i met and the independence I fostered.

The apartment I got on my own and the life I was building at my College.
I was thankful. I was becoming a woman. A strong and independent woman.
A strong single mother.

All 4 years I was known as the strong single mother.

Even though i had a boyfriend.

Because just like the wind, he was always coming and going. As he pleased.
And when he did a no show for a while and then said he was confused, I was thankful.

I was smart, driven, passionate. Succeeding.

I was the PERFECT PARTNER to be with for someone who was not sure what to do with their life.
I would help him. Guide him.

I would capture the wind and direct it.

I was thankful in the end, even though it really hurt.

Thankful that he ghosted and then finally said it was over.

Because it was really hard being known as a loner and ACTUALLY being alone around the person I had thought I loved.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ thankful.

In the last 5 years, I have met a partner who has matched me in so many ways and yet been my exact opposite in mindset and experiences.

An entrepreneur. Independent. Strong. But not over powering. Not a wind.

He was my thunder.

The thunder that came crashing and bursting into my life. And the one who when the storms come in my life would just hold my hand in it and watch through the window.

I have had to learn how to be thankful.

Thankful for the abuse and past I endured.

Thankful for the hyper-vigilance and fears. The diagnosis of PTSD.

The validation of finally knowing what my problems are and where they stem from.

I am thankful for my art and writing because after coping came facing all the problems.

So I re purposed my creativity into a way to tell the stories.

The words that make me who I am.

Strong and resilient.
A challenge taker.

I have found a way to be thankful for the conditions, because I have learned a better way of living through having to manage them.

My anxiety has actually given me a great need to simplify my life. To flow. To show patience. And to set boundaries. It not only manages my anxiety but I am able to navigate life in a way that brings me joy instead of misery.

My depression, though it felt like a storm, made me have to be alone.
ALONE.

Isolated from everything mentally and sometimes physically. Only then was I able to be alone with myself.
To face me.
And be thankful.
To find my own rhythm.

PTSD has made me realize that I am a time traveler.

I get to travel, when I harness it, all over my life. I get to relive the past. And yes, it was scary at first. But then I realized that going back and taking control in the flashbacks is possible.

Because they are not real.

I have released the fear of being like my parents. I do not have schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. But I can actively put myself into a memory or flash now.

And as I work on it, I visualize.

I rewrite.

☆☆☆☆☆☆ thankful☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

I am so thankful I am a writer.
I always have been.
And now I get to redefine these emotions.
My own identity.
And my future.
I want to always remember to be thankful.
Because the journey has felt like 4 lifetimes.
All the moves.
The different caretakers.
The different obstacles.
Now I get to write number 5 exactly how I want it to be.
It sounds funny but I love to smell my kids scent as they fall asleep.
This little family I have made.
A familiar scent that I can pour all my love into.
All the ways I want to be as a woman, wife, and mother all stem from them.
As I re-parent and parent.
And every night, as I kiss their little faces good night.

Fu*k.
I am just so thankful.

J.S. Jaded Savior

We are not supposed to view experiences as wasted or unwanted.

We learn best through struggles and overcoming challenges.

Overcoming abuse is not a life obstacle.

It is a deterrent from living life.

It is a prison cell.

A nightmare in which you feel trapped over and over again.

Even long after you are safe.

Starting Jaded Savior blog taught me so much about myself.

My spiritual healing journey has taught me, through light and shadow work, that my duality of good and bad qualities come from abuse.

That I am inauthentic.

Or rather, void of identity and self esteem.

How could this have happened?

When women call eachother queen on the internet, it is the absolute best compliment.

It is a symbol of sisterhood and support.

Feminism. Empowerment.

Love.

When I am called queen, I shrivel.

It does not empower me.

But that trigger comes from abusers programming me to lose my identity.

To create one for me.

As it turns out, I have not known myself.

The traits I thought were me were symptoms of anxiety and depression.

The good news is, I AM NOT MY ANXIETY OR DEPRESSION.

I AM NOT TRAUMA.

I am also not lost or lacking of identity.

Beneath the layers of experiences is who I AM TO BECOME.

I once was a JADED SAVIOR.

Someone chronically wanting to save everybody but myself.

It wasn't until I left abuse through awareness and action that I was able to become something new.

Not a Queen.

Not a Savior of the Narcissists and Sociopaths.

But instead:

A path forger.

A dark sorter.

A light bringer.

A writer.

A creator.

Me.
​
J.S. Jaded Savior
​

art by lindsayrappgallery.com